


Or He Will Burn

by MissNaya



Category: DCU, Flashpoint (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flashpoint, Blasphemy, Corruption, Dubious Consent, M/M, Priests, Religion, Seduction, Somnophilia, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9591737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Tim comes to Father Todd with a problem: he thinks he's being targeted by an incubus. When it takes a liking to Jason himself, he starts to wonder if he bit off more than he could chew.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so this is one of my favorite AUs. technically it's even more of an AU than Flashpoint, since Dick is a demon instead of a circus boy, but whatever. enjoy the sin.

“An incubus.”

Father Todd's voice is politely doubtful, hands folded on his desk as he listens to one of his parishioners talk. The only reason he hasn't ended the meeting already is because Tim's normally such a grounded young man. He's not the type to make up stories, not like this.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Tim says, and Jason nods with a smile playing on his lips. “But I can prove it! Look.”

Tim digs through his bag, fishing out one of his Polaroids. His subjects are normally very real; intimate little glimpses of city life and nature that Jason always calls “a look at what God sees.” (Tim rolls his eyes when he says that, but he knows he likes to hear it.) The picture he hands over this time, however, is angled strangely and lit poorly, a far cry from Tim's usual meticulously-lined-up shots.

It shows what he assumes is the inside of Tim's room, moonlight pouring through an open window. He squints, not sure what he's supposed to be looking at until Tim points out what could be the end of a bat wing near the edge of the window, and a spade tip at the end of something long and whip-like.

“There, see? He's fast,” Tim says. “That's all I could get.”

“Tim—” Jason starts, about to calmly discourage wasting his time with pranks, but Tim interrupts him.

“You've gotta believe me,” he says, and, not for the first time, Jason notices the growing bags under his eyes. “I— I didn't want to believe it, myself, but I don't know what else to do. I can't sleep. I can't concentrate in class. I don't know who else to...”

He trails off, and the two of them lock eyes for a tense moment. Tim's the first to break the silence, snatching his photo off of the desk.

“Nevermind. I'll—”

“Tim.” Jason catches him by the wrist before he can leave, fixing him with a kind smile. “It's Gotham. Stranger things have happened, right?”

* * *

 

And that's how he finds himself hosting Tim in the rectory for a night, in the spare room next to his own. Tim's parents frequent the church, always happy to chat with Jason, so it wasn't hard to convince them to let him stay for the night for some “additional spiritual guidance.”

Yeah, he knows how it sounds. But Tim's in college (the kind of sheltered 18-year-old who lives at home and still needs his parents' permission to do things), and Jason has no interest in him like that, anyway. His only interest in Tim is in getting to the bottom of whatever's been troubling him for so long.

When he has time to step back and reflect, he realizes Tim must have had something going on for weeks before approaching him. He'd caught him dozing off more than once during Sunday mass (a problem he usually rectified by gesturing to the organist to play a particularly jarring note). Tim had been by less often to show off his photography, too, but Jason had attributed that to his classes getting more time-consuming. He guesses he was wrong.

Or maybe he's not, and Tim really is playing the long con. Jason will find out one way or another which it is.

It's with some reluctance that he agrees to stay in Tim's room for the night. Tim takes the bed, and Jason sits at the desk, reading scriptures he's gone over countless times by the low light of a candle. It never gets boring, not to him, and he scribbles notes down while Tim settles into bed.

It doesn't take long for Tim's breathing to even out. A quick glance at him shows that he's out cold, every breath ending in a tiny snore. He really must have been hurting for sleep.

Jason stays up for a few more hours, accompanied by nothing but the soft sounds of Tim's occasional shifting and the scratch of his pen against paper. He looks over every once in a while, expecting to see the rapid eye movements or bodily twitches that accompany night terrors, but Tim sleeps like a brick.

Finally, at about 4 in the morning, Jason's own eyelids have grown too heavy to go on, and he dutifully lays down a blanket on the floor and settles in for the night. Sleep starts to take him quickly, blurring the edges of his consciousness. Just when he's almost out, he feels a heaviness on his chest, and hears an unfamiliar voice purring in his ear.

“Ooh, I _like_ you.”

* * *

 

They both sleep in until 11. Jason chalks the voice up to a strange dream, more interested in making up for lost time than worrying about whatever tricks his mind played on him when he was sleep-deprived. Tim putters around the rectory, still half-asleep, silent and practically motionless until he downs one and a half mugs of coffee.

“You think I'm a liar, don't you?” he finally asks over a plate of bacon and eggs.

“Hmm?” Jason washes his own dishes in the nearby sink, reminding himself that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all.

Tim snorts. “It's smart. Or it can't get inside a place like this. I should've known...” He slurps down more coffee, then stifles a yawn. “Thanks anyway. That's the best night of sleep I've gotten in way too long.”

“You know you're welcome here any time,” Jason says, drying off a plate.

Tim drains the rest of the mug and joins him by the sink.

“If you always make coffee like this, I might take you up on that, Father.”

* * *

 

The next week, Tim shows up for mass looking perky as can be. Which, for Tim, isn't all that perky, but the bags under his eyes have lessened, and he doesn't fall asleep with his communion wafer still dissolving in his mouth. Whatever was wrong with him, it seems to have gotten considerably better since their last visit. Tim's father even gives him a firm handshake, thanking him for “whatever you told my boy to get his spirits up.”

Jason takes the praise modestly, as always, and reminds Tim there's more strong coffee at the rectory whenever he'd like to stop by. Tim seems flustered, for whatever reason, but nods and mumbles something that sounds like assent.

His own nights, meanwhile, begin to feel... off.

It starts with a prickling at the back of his neck, like he's being watched. He ignores it for the first few nights, but eventually, he gives in to the urge to check around the facility and make sure no one's gotten inside that he's unaware of. The rectory houses a few homeless people on occasion — he was one of them, once — but summer is always the least crowded time of the year, and none of his regulars have shown up asking for assistance. All the guest rooms are empty, and nothing seems to be out of place.

When he gets back to his room, his rosary has slid off of his desk and onto the floor.

“What are you doing down there...?” he mumbles, bending down to pick it up. A breeze from his window leaves the curtains ghosting over his hand, and he laughs to himself. That explains it.

Even so, he prays the full rosary before he retires to bed.

 

He wakes up to that same presence from before on his chest and a fogginess in his brain. He stirs, but he's still half-asleep, limbs and eyelids both heavy. He thinks _sleep paralysis,_ but then he feels the ghosting of a tongue over his jaw, and it's far too real to be a trick of the mind.

“ _Father,_ ” a voice breathes, that same voice he heard on the floor of the guest room, and a hand that's not his own trails down his stomach.

Sleep takes him again, but a dream closes around him and leaves him sweating and sticky under the covers by the time he wakes up.

* * *

 

He doesn't want to admit it, but he thinks of Tim's story as soon as he's under the cold spray of his morning shower.

An incubus. It seems hilariously out-there. But he lives in a world where inter-dimensional travelers occasionally show up on his doorstep, and he himself died and came back to life. He already has faith in God and, by extension, the Devil. Demons aren't really that big a stretch.

So he humors himself and pulls out dusty old religious tomes in the church's library. One of the other priests catches him poring over books about monsters and magic, and Jason laughs and says he's working on a sermon that might catch the school-aged boys' attention a little better. He's left alone after that.

He's surprised by how many conflicting stories there are about what, exactly, an incubus is. Some say it's a succubus that's chosen to take on a temporary male form; others posit that they're an entirely different species with no gender-shifting abilities. Some call them shapeshifters, capable of taking on the appearance that their target would most desire. Still others say they're dream-hoppers with no physical form at all. There isn't even a consensus on how to banish them. He supposes not many people who've had to deal with them were very keen on getting rid of them.

After hours of research, he finally gives up. All this over a funny feeling and a wet dream? He needs to stop letting college kids get his imagination going. He prays for forgiveness for wasting so much time, and goes off to help the others prepare for evening mass.

* * *

 

The next few nights are more of the same. Something that he can't explain wakes him up; he hears a whisper; he falls asleep to thoughts that are the definition of sinful. It begins to affect his waking hours, but he doesn't even notice until one of the younger parishioners calls him out for moving sluggishly.

Finally, he's had enough. Either this is psychosomatic, or some bottom-feeding demon is targeting him, and he won't have any of that. He stubbornly resolves to pretend to sleep that night. He lies on his side, one hand clutching a crucifix under his pillow.

It's difficult staying awake with his eyes closed, that's for sure. But whenever he feels himself drifting off, he runs his thumb over one of the ends of the cross and prays to the Holy Trinity for strength. That usually works to stave off sleep for another hour or two.

He doesn't know how late it is when that man-like shape finally settles on top of him again. It takes all of his willpower not to stiffen up. He can feel the bed droop on either side of him, where he supposes the person's (creature's?) elbows are resting, and he hears its calm, steady breaths.

It feels like an eternity goes by, him pretending to sleep, the thing doing nothing, until he finally hears that voice again.

“I know you're awake.”

Jason's eyes shoot open, and he turns as much as he can, finally, _finally_ getting a look at the intruder.

At first glance, the face hovering over his own is stunningly beautiful. It belongs to a man who can't be much older than his mid-twenties, with bright blue eyes and jet-black hair, soft, symmetrical features screaming “perfect” in the moonlight. At first, Jason thinks he's wearing a mask, but as his eyes adjust, he realizes the man has black markings of some sort ringing his eyes, almost a mockery of those vigilantes who wander Gotham's streets at night.

The man's chin is resting on his hands, and he blinks and smiles, looking for all the world like a cat with its prey under its paw. Jason gapes, thinks of a million colorful things he might have said when he was younger, and finally settles on, “Would you mind getting off?”

“That's what I'm here to do,” the man says, and laughs with a voice that sounds too innocent, too melodic.

He straightens his back, allowing Jason to see the rest of his body. And _God,_ what a body it is. It's lithe but muscular, toned like a swimmer or an acrobat might be. There are markings on his chest, too, a deep blue color in a sort of V, with ends that extend over his shoulders. Jason's eyes are drawn downward, wondering if the man is really as stark-naked as he seems, but he tears his eyes back up before he can find out.

That's when he notices the wings.

They stretch out to frame the man's body, blue-black and leathery, at least six feet long from end to end. And, curling lazily some distance under them, Jason can see the tip of the same spade tail that Tim caught in his picture.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he breathes.

The man — the _thing_ — laughs.

“That's what I've always liked about church folk,” it says, and Jason can see fangs when it smiles. “You're so predictable. For people who aren't supposed to take the big guy's name in vain, you sure do it a lot, anyway.”

“Okay,” Jason says, trying to stop himself from gaping. “Okay. Right. This is— I'm assuming Tim was telling the truth?”

The thing winks. “Score one for the Father.”

“Hmm,” Jason says, blinking up at the ceiling. “Okay. An incubus. In my bed. Alright. Do you, uh, have a name...?”

“Dick.”

Jason gives him a deadpan look. The demon just keeps smiling.

“I'm telling the truth.”

“Of course.” Jason slings an arm over his eyes, trying not to focus on the warmth of Dick's body sitting on his lap. “Should I assume you already know my name?”

“Oh, yeah.” Dick settles down across his chest again, and Jason stiffens up underneath him. He feels hot breath just under his jaw, and wills his body not to respond. “ _Father_ Jason Todd. Youngest priest in the parish. You're very _popular_ around these parts, do you know that? So handsome, always ready to lend a hand...”

Dick's hand sits on his chest and starts to move lower, and Jason reaches out to grab him by the wrist.

“Not _that_ willing, sorry,” he says. Dick chuckles. The sound goes straight to Jason's crotch, and he bites down on his tongue.

“You'd be better off if you didn't try to hide it,” Dick says matter-of-factly. “I can tell when someone wants me. I can smell it. Did any of your books tell you that?”

“How did you—”

“Oh, I've been watching you for a while, Father,” Dick says, casually, and begins to pepper kisses down Jason's neck. Jason stays perfectly still, but he can feel his body begin to react. With Dick lying on top of him, he's sure he can feel it, too. “You're interesting. All that born-again stuff? It's actually pretty cute. Makes me wanna eat. You. Up.”

As soon as Jason feels the brush of Dick's fangs against his neck, he pulls the crucifix out from under his pillow (and thinks, a few years ago, he would've had a gun at the ready instead). Dick backs off and sits up, and Jason feels something push against his hand like the demon and the cross are two negative sides of a magnet forcing each other back. He bites back a gasp, trying to look more confident than he feels.

“I'm not a buffet,” he says, “and neither are my parishioners. The power of Christ compel—”

“C'mon, no, none of that cliché stuff, okay?” Dick waves at the cross like he's trying to bat away a fly. “You watch _The Exorcist_ too much.”

Jason wonders if all demons are this chatty. A second later, he wonders if all of them look so good when they pout like that, and he squashes the thought into a metaphorical suitcase. _Close it. Lock it. Don't think about it._

“Last I checked, we don't have procedures on how to make this kinda thing more fun,” he says to the demon. “Now get out of my bed and away from my church before I start the Our Fathers.”

Dick sighs. He leans back on his hands, stretching out all of his muscles, again like a cat. A cat with... bat wings? Jason acknowledges his metaphors might not be the strongest. Whatever. He keeps his eyes on Dick's face, and not the long lines of his muscles under flawless skin. For the first time, he notices a small pair of horns poking out from under Dick's pitch-black hair.

“Now, see, we're gonna have to talk this out,” the demon says, “because I was hoping you could help me with something.”

“Your appetite?” Jason says flatly.

Dick beams. “Bingo. Hey, don't look so sour, Father. I thought helping the needy was your thing now?”

Jason doesn't ask him what he means by “now.” He pushes the cross forward, strong against the resistance he feels.

“You _need_ to get away from me.”

“I'll only find someone else.”

Jason pauses too noticeably. Dick hums, tracing one long finger over the outline of Jason's legs under the covers.

“Like the photographer, maybe. I could pose for him; let him get a better shot.” He looks up through dark lashes, and there's no word other than “devilish” to describe his smile. “I think he'd like that.”

“Or I could just, y'know. Exorcise you,” Jason says, but he can't completely hide the anger in his voice. It's been a while since he's been this close to falling back into that pit of wrath that ruined him when he was younger. He makes a mental note to pray for forgiveness once all this is over.

“Could you?” Dick cocks his head to the side. “Have you ever done it before?”

“I could,” Jason says. He conspicuously doesn't answer the second question.

“Okay.” Dick shimmies his hips up a bit, legs on either side of Jason's body, so that he has more room to sink down onto his back. His weight settles hot and heavy on Jason's legs, separated from him only by a thin blanket. From this angle, he can see Dick is definitely naked. “Do it, then. _Exorcise_ me, Father.”

“Stop that,” Jason says. He's grateful Dick isn't in any position to see the blush on his face.

“Do it,” Dick breathes, trailing one hand down his own body. Jason looks — he can't help it — just in time to see Dick wrap a hand around his own cock. He screws his eyes shut, but it does nothing to block out the demon's voice. “Please, Father. I've been so bad...”

“Our F-Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—”

He can hear flesh moving against flesh. Dick writhes on top of him, sings soft praises to pleasure in the form of tantalizing little moans.

“—thy kingdom come, thy will be done—”

“—yes, punish me, it _hurts—”_

“—on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our—”

“—mmm, give it to me. That's it. Yes...!”

“—our... daily bread, and forgive us of all—”

“ _Jason—!_ ”

Jason sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, and finally lowers the crucifix. He can't do it. It seems wrong to point an idol of the Son at such a wretched display. He feels positively filthy just holding it. He hates more than anything that he wants to hear more of the demon's noises, wants to _make him_ make them.

They're both silent for a few moments after that, save for Dick's heavy breathing. The air feels like it's gotten denser, somehow. Jason wants to open his mouth and let himself drown; he holds onto the crucifix for dear life, so hard it cuts into his palm.

“I really can smell you,” Dick says, finally. Jason winces at how crude he is. “You're— _delicious._ ”

He sounds so sincere that Jason shivers. Dick sits up, rolling their hips together.

“I want to help you,” Dick goes on, “I really do. You can't be happy like this, can you? You _know_ what it's like to enjoy yourself without all these rules.” He leans down, begins kissing Jason's neck again. His voice is low in Jason's ear, a serpent's hiss. “Would it really be that bad, just for one night...?”

“I.” Jason swallows a lump in his throat. “I was under the impression this wouldn't be the first night.”

“Hardly counted.” Dick's hand trails down his arm, the one that's holding the crucifix, long fingers wrapping around his wrist. Jason wonders if that hurts him; if it does, he's powering through it. “It's always better when they're awake. Fills me up more.”

“You need to find someone else,” Jason says, every syllable measured. He watches Dick's tail curl around itself lazily.

“Oh? So you're letting me go?” the devil asks.

Jason opens his mouth to say yes. He really does. But he's been studying the holy documents long enough to know that there's always a catch with these sorts of encounters.

He thinks of Tim. Thinks of all the members of his parish, of the families he's known for years, of the priests and nuns who practically raised him after he came back from the dead. The people who gave him another chance when he never deserved it. If he lets the demon go, is he condemning them to this fate?

Dick's thumb finds a pressure point on his wrist. Jason lets the crucifix fall from his fingers and clatter onto the floor. _God help me,_ he thinks.

He feels Dick smirk against his neck. Dick pulls his hand up, guides it to the curve of his ass, and Jason lets himself feel it, full and smooth and warm, every inch of the demon inviting him to sin.

“There you go, Father,” Dick says, rocking their hips together. “That's it. Touch me; I want it. I'll be yours, Father, your little pet...”

“Stop it.” Jason grabs Dick's face with his free hand, pressing his palm over his mouth. He thinks he sees Dick's tail freeze up over his shoulder. Desperately, he continues, “Just stop talking. You win. You win, okay? Please don't speak.”

Dick's eyes glow with mischief. (They look too bright, too blue, in the darkness of the room.) He nods. Jason drops his hand.

They kiss.

 

It's been ages since Jason has been with anyone. The vow of celibacy was difficult at first, but over time, he grew to accept it as part of himself, just like every other aspect of the clergy. He'd been able to keep control of his urges. There'd been no touching, no kissing, scarcely even a night spent alone with his hand since he'd become a priest.

Now, with Dick's skillful, sinful hands guiding him, he's practically falling apart. He's on top, now, Dick's wings and legs both spread wide. He's naked. He doesn't remember taking his clothes off. It's hard to think of anything but how good skin feels against skin.

At the very least, Dick hasn't said a word since Jason told him not to. He speaks with his body, a language Jason picks up on far too fast. Jason's hands clumsily explore Dick's torso, and he feels like a virgin all over again, stuck between wanting and waiting, keeping his hands above waist level until Dick finally drags a hand down between his legs.

Dick is wet like a woman when Jason's prompted to slide a finger in. He supposes it makes sense; what's the use of a perfectly-sculpted sex demon if you still have to bother with human inconveniences? He doesn't have any lubricant anyway. The mere thought has his cheeks burning, and he treats Dick as delicately as he would a virgin, though he's slick and soft and there's no resistance at all.

One finger becomes two, becomes three, and Dick hugs his head against his chest, the pair of them slick with sweat. Dick cards his fingers through Jason's hair like he's trying to calm down a skittish animal, and he wonders which one of them is really the pet.

“You can be rougher,” Dick says after what feels like a decade of silence. He's whispering, but there's a commanding force behind his words. There's no timidity to be found. “You want to, don't you? It's alright. I want it. I want you to be happy...”

Jason groans, practically _whines._ “I thought I told you to shut up.”

“Let yourself go,” Dick coos, almost sing-song. He tugs lightly at Jason's hair; Jason growls.

“Stop.”

“You're already sinning.”

“Enough.”

“You miss it. Miss being able to let out your frustrations. I know; I understand.”

“You don't know _anything about me!_ ”

Jason ends that sentence with a thrust of his fingers that's so rough it draws a yelp out of Dick. Jason pushes himself up, looks furious, then aghast.

He liked hearing that sound.

He hates that he liked it.

Dick is flushed, his chest a patchwork of deep red and darker blue where his skin is marked with that symbol. He reaches down to spread his cheeks open, lifting his hips to give Jason a better view of his swollen, wet hole. Jason's fingers are still inside.

“No... I don't,” Dick says. His brows are creased, and there's a whine in _his_ voice, now. “I don't, do I? Are you mad?”

Jason knows what he's doing, but he lets himself fall for it anyway. He shoves his fingers as deep as they can go inside of Dick, watches the rim of muscle around them twitch and strain.

“Yes,” he admits, “ _yes._ ”

“Do something about it,” Dick breathes. “ _Take_ me.”

“I don't want to do this.”

“You do. You do, you want it, I can smell it on you, could smell it since the first time I saw you,” Dick babbles. “Hell, it's so— _good._ Never, never— I've never smelled anything like it. Please...!”

Jason knows he's lying. That's what devils do; they lie and they corrupt and they take everything you've built for yourself. He twists his wrist harshly, drawing out another breathless moan.

“I told you,” he says, yanking his fingers out and pressing his cockhead to Dick's hole, “to stop _talking._ ”

When he presses in, Dick smiles a Cheshire smile.

He fucks him rough and hard, kisses him to drown out his screams, and lets Dick carve bloody stripes into his back with his claws. It barely takes a minute before he comes, fingers digging into Dick's thighs, and a thought comes unbidden into his mind of what the demon might look like with his wings snapped and broken.

He barely has time to be horrified with himself before unconsciousness takes him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> that was a little less graphic than I normally go for, so I'm hoping to add more to this later! let me know what you think. c:


End file.
